Ten Little Investigators
by effydodge
Summary: In response to a prompt on mystradedoodles.tumblr to rewrite Agatha Christie stories with Mystrade/Johnlock. This one is going to be roughly based on And Then There Were None (also published as Ten Little Indians).


Whenever Mycroft Holmes called Detective Inspector Lestrade's office at Scotland Yard, the phone rang differently. The note it struck was higher, the pulsing trill was more pitched and urgent. This was particularly odd considering he usually dialed the landline.

Greg reshuffled the belongings on his desk, sorted them pointlessly into a better semblance of order. Whenever he spoke to the older Holmes, he felt curiously like he was being watched.

He picked up the receiver and ran a hand through his hair. "Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"My dear Gregory," came the voice on the other end. He sounded relaxed. But he wasn't, not if he was calling. "You look exhausted."

Greg glanced around. There was no one over his shoulder and his shades were drawn to block glare from the setting sun. He could see a hallway through the window opposite. A few officers were wandering by with manila envelopes in hand, a conference room was empty on the other side.

"How would you know what I look like?" Greg asked.

Mycroft sounded like he was trying not to laugh. Then he sounded like he was drinking a scotch on the rocks. "The evening news, Gregory. You were interviewed in connection with the Indian Island case."

"God… that's right, yeah." A blush spread over his neck and cheeks and he prayed Mycroft couldn't actually see. Something in the other man's voice was completely destabilizing, and although he hadn't actually forgotten about the case, it had gotten somewhat lost in a haze of other thoughts. "I guess you're calling here because Sherlock-"

"Is experiencing extremely premature separation anxiety, yes. But that's hardly the point. We both know he'd help you solve the case and we both know he'd deflect away the negative publicity you're receiving."

"And we both know he's been bothering you."

"He'll be bothering you soon enough.

"The situation is firmly in hand, I assure you, My- Mr. Holmes."

Greg could _hear_ the smirk on the other end. "There's nothing wrong with a little added firmness, Gregory."

Greg looked at the ceiling, asking all the higher powers he knew for the strength to deal with this man. That bizarre Holmes family Christmas last year… too much eggnog and that damn luxury car whisking him off to a mystery mansion. Lord, it was the kind of mistake that might never go away. "We're still talking about the case, yeah?"

"We were never actually talking about the case. You were always going to let Sherlock in. This is a courtesy call."

"My- _Mr. Holmes_." He gritted his teeth as he corrected himself for the second time.

"If you're trying to desexualize your encounters with me, you're going about it the wrong way."

"He's emotionally compromised."

"He's a Holmes. He's at once never and always emotionally compromised. He can work regardless."

"Right." Greg could hear the bitterness in his own voice. Suddenly he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Have a lovely evening, Detective Lestrade." The line went dead.

Greg set down the phone and leaned back in his chair. "Right," he repeated. He pulled on his lip, propped his legs up on the table.

Just as he was beginning to think he _really might_ be in over his head, Sergeant Donovan peaked around the corner. She had a knack for that sort of timing. "Problem, sir?"

"No, just… not relatively-speaking, no. I'm sure it'll all sort itself out. Just get me-"

His mobile rang at that precise moment. They both rolled their eyes.

"Alakazam," Sally said in a monotone. "For my next trick, bet I'll get to leave work early."

With a short, unamused laugh, he shooed her away.

Giving himself a moment of rest, a slight reprieve before Sherlock Holmes started calling him an idiot for not recognizing the severity of the situation sooner, he answered the mobile.

"Yes, Sherlock. Yes, alright, yes. Calm down." He rubbed his forehead. Sherlock's voice through that small speaker was loud enough to be heard by the entire office. Lestrade rose from his desk wearily, moved over to shut his office door.

Only when he'd eased himself back into his seat did he venture to interrupt.

"John will be fine. Yes- yes. Alright, look I'm glad you know that. If you know that then why the hell are you – Right, look you know her name isn't Velma. It's Vera, Vera Claythorne… it's been all over the bloody news. …. Well she's boring as a schoolteacher quite possibly, but there's nothing boring about _this_, is there?"

There was a long pause then, during which for some reason Anderson was staring at him through the main window of his office. Sherlock was rambling a string of expletives and facts in one ear while Anderson stared blankly at him, then grinned vacantly. It was as if he was there to help Sherlock make his point.

"Fine, yes, I need you on this one," Greg relented. "Even… yeah, despite that comment. I'll bring over the details."


End file.
